But, Brethren, be ye good as she was evil, [Sidenote: 2 _Use._] Must ye needs go because she’s gone to the Devil? _Thy dinner carry._] Here may we look upon A childe of God in great affliction: Why what does he’ aile? Alas! he wanteth meat, Now what (Beloved) was sent him for to eat? Truly a small matter; one a dish of pottage. But pray what pottage? Such as a small cottage Afforded onely to the Countrey swains, From whence, though not a man the place explains, ’Tis guess’d that neither Christmas pottage ’twas, Nor white-broth, nor cap’n-broth, good for sick maws, Nor milk-porrage, or thick pease-porrage either, Nor was it mutton-broth, nor veal-broth neither, But sure some homely stuff crum’d with brown-bread, And thus was _Daniel_, good _Daniel_ fed. Truly, this was but homely fare you’l say, [Sidenote: Would he have been so content?] Yet _Daniel_, good _Daniel_ was content that day: And though there could be thought on nothing cheaper, Yet fed as well on’t as he had been a reaper. [Sidenote: 3 _Use._] Better eat any thing than not at all, Fasting, Beloved, why? ’tis prejudiciall To the weak Saints, Beloved ’tis a sin, [Sidenote: Several Reasons.] And thus to prove the same I will begin: Hunger, Beloved, why? this hunger mauls, Au! tis a great mauler, it breaks stone-walls, Now my Beloved, to break stone-walls you know, Why ’tis flat felony, and there’s great woe Follows that sin, besides ’tis a great schisme, ’Tis ceremonious, ’tis Pagan Judisme. Judisme! why beloved, have you ere been [Sidenote: Description of Antichrist.] Where the black Dog of _New-gate_ you have seen? Hair’d like a Turk, with eyes like Antichrist, He doth and hath ye Brethren long entic’t. Claws like a star-chamber bishop, black as hell, And doubtlesse he was one of those that fell. Judisme I say is uglier than this dog: Truly _& cætera’s_ not so foul a hog. _Thrown among Lyons by hard hearted men_,] Here _Daniel_ is the Church, the _world_’s the Den. By Lyons are meant Monarchs, Kings of Nations, Those worse than heathenish abominations: Truly dear friends, these Kings and Governours, These Byshops too, nay all superiour powers, Why they are Lyons, Locusts, Whales, I Whales, beloved, Off goes our ears if once their wrath be moved; But woe unto you Kings! woe to you Princes! ’Tis fifty and four, now Antichrist, so saies My book, must reign three daies, and three half daies, Why that is three years and a half beloved. Or else as many precious men have proved One thousand two hundred and threescore daies, Why now the time’s almost expir’d, time staies